Christmas With a Genius
by TapTapAlways
Summary: Also known as "A Johnlock Christmas". This is the sequel to my other story "A Portrait of a Genius", where John and Sherlock become a couple as Sherlock return from the fall, but John worries about the increasing reserve of his very own genius. It includes a prequel and is set the following Christmas, because writing of Christmas in August is just how I roll.
1. Prologue

_So, it turns out my head was not finished by far with this (lack of) plot! So here is the sequel to "A portrait of a Genius". This prequel takes place about ten months before the first chapter of that story. All recognizable content belongs to its respective owners like always. Just like the first fic I mean no copyright infringement and make no profit from this story._

 _TapTap_

John returned with heavy, hesitant steps to Baker Street after his work at the surgery. He wondered if Sherlock would be there. After all, it was his flat. Mycroft, or rather the assistant he had no doubt given the assignment, had taken over the rent when Sherlock fell. John had always attributed it to guilt. He stopped dead in his tracks at the middle of the staircase at that thought, realising that it couldn't have been.

Whether the Holmes were acting on his little brother's orders or his own initiative, he was clearly taking care of him. John might not be as brilliant as the brothers, but not only was he not a fool, no, he also knew far more about emotions than they both did put together. And now that he knew what he was looking for, he knew concern when he looked it right into the metaphorical eye.

John entered the living room cautiously, hoping now that Sherlock would be there. It was well overdue that they spoke to each other, he knew that now. He was ready to listen to his roommate. He wanted to know the story, hear his reasons. He was suddenly sure that they'd be good.

"John?" Sherlock was sitting in his long abandoned chair. John winced at the large, deep bruise on the genius' cheek. He went up to him and turned his head with his fingers underneath his jaw, touching it gently to determine if it needed any care. To his surprise, Sherlock did nothing to resist, obediently letting him check, though the first touch had him flinching. That saddened John, but he guessed that he deserved it. "I am not hitting you again" he assured the genius as he finished his examination. "It should heal well, but it will take a few days".

The Consulting Detective watched him silently as the former army doctor went to sit in his own armchair, watching him right back, but he said nothing. Like so many times before, John decided to give him a hint. After all, Sherlock sat there looking merely unsure. If anything, he was trying to read John, trying to figure out how to act, how to make this right. "I was upset, the day before yesterday. I am sure even you can understand why by now. I shouldn't have hit you, but you had it coming, frankly. I am ready to listen now". And John knew the genius just well enough to catch the look of thorough relief on his face at that statement.


	2. Chapter 1

_So, this installment of the "Portrait of a Genius" verse is the story of John and Sherlock's first Christmas as an engaged couple, told in seven parts. I hope you enjoy. All recognizable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John hummed for himself as he cleaned the last of the kitchen at 221B Baker Street. He had cleaned the place from top to bottom - not including Sherlock's lab in the spare room, after all, he was merely an adrenaline junky, he did not have an outright death wish - and was planning on a nice dinner later in the evening, maybe.

Sherlock had started to get more comfortable with John touching him, slowly, but John did not expect it to be a fast process. His original viewpoint on food since the beginning of their relationship however did not change, and he obediently still ate what John put on his plate, within reason anyway. For some reason, there simply was no way of making Sherlock eat peaches, pesto or green paprica. John had absolutely no idea why.

"John?" Sherlock had been in his mind palace most of the day, not even leaving the bedroom, but now he emerged, dressed in pyjama bottoms and his big, floppy morning robe. John snorted at that, as it was well past five o'clock in the afternoon. Sherlock did not comment, but then again he probably knew exactly what he was thinking anyway, so why bother?

"So" John decided to comment on an email he had recieved just an hour earlier, read during a brief break in cleaning, and get it over with. "So, I... kind of have a family thing coming closer to Christmas. We meet up every third year and... eh... have dinner usually".

"You have mentioned as much before" Sherlock merely commented emotionlessly, his eyes darting quickly over John's face "you said it was torture". "Well, yes, it is rarely a nice event, but I am going" John decides in a tone that brokers no argument". Sherlock, possibly knowing him well enough to truly grasp serious John when he sees him, merely nods in acknowledgement and does not argue. "Then I will come with you, assuming that was what you were going to ask".

John found himself smiling in amusement. "Of course. But surely you could just deduce that?" "I could" Sherlock granted and came up to gently hug his John, a rare moment of him initiating full bodily contact. "But you wanted to say as much". "Smiling, John gently rubbed his genius' shoulders, taking care not to stray too low onto his back and make him uncomfortable. "I guess that I did. Thank you, Sherlock". The genius merely made a humming sound, letting himself be held for as long as John needed to.

When he finally let go, John headed to the kitchen to start some dinner, Sherlock deciding to help in his own, slightly unusual manner, by seating himself by the kitchen table with his violin and softly playing a selection of John's favourite pieces, returning several times to the doctor's favourites of the detective's own compositions, most of which had been written specifically for the doctor.

John wasted no time to marvel at how Sherlock could judge him so very well and know every one of his favourite pieces by heart, even the ones he had never been told about, instead merely enjoying the music and humming along softly for himself, drawing a warm, almost shy smile from his very own consulting, detecting, violin-music-composing, strangely romantic and and sometimes completely hopeless genius of a fiance.


	3. Chapter 2

_Sherlock and John have been together for about ten months when the main story "A Portrait of a Genius" is set, and it goes over about eight-ten months in total, not counting the very last two paragraphs, which are set after this story. Here they have been engaged for about half a year. "Portrait of a Genius" tells about the Christmas John is thinking about in this chapter and the new years eve he is also reminiscing about is a bonus story for reviewers. :-) All recognizable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

It was noon of Christmas eve, and John sat in the living room of Baker Street, frowning to himself in his white sweater. He was waiting for Sherlock, who had spent the morning experimenting up in the spare bedroom. The last Christmas had been the best John could remember, certainly since his childhood, waking up on Christmas day to find his normally reserved partner willing to cuddle for literally hours, not even minding to have his back rubbed, which after torture during the genius' time spent deconstructing Moriarty's network he generally abhorred.

During the year since then, Sherlock had slowly let John closer and closer, but they were still nowhere near that morning. John was secretly hoping he would get a similar gift this year. Now, however, they were heading out for a family outing that was a every-third-year tradition of the Watson family. John was not looking forward to it. They were not close, and several of his family members were a tad snobby, not that he had much by way of extended family.

Sherlock chose that moment to come out, dressed elegantly in a black suit, his curly black hair barely dried. "Ready to go?" John rose as he nodded, and they approached the door together. John found himself wishing that it was a family gathering on Sherlock's side they were heading off for instead. John had only seen two of those in their time together, one of them the classy New Year's eve party Siger and Violet Holmes held every year, but but they were in comparison very much less trying.

They left Baker Street hand in hand, getting into a cab. The Watsons, and all inlaws who felt like turning up, were going to meet at a restaurant this year. Sherlock stroked his hand in the cab, clearly picking up on his nerves. John squeezed his hand a little in return, but didn't stroke it, as Sherlock didn't like specific touches to the inside of his hands. His doctor tried not to think about what had caused this. He was sure it involved more pain than he'd ever want to have to see the genius in ever again.

They arrived a bit early, to find a large corner table reserved for the family gathering. None of John's blood relatives, nor any of their married in family (or _their_ blood relatives, as was most often the case) had arrived yet, but Mycroft was there, looking supremely elegant in an icy, Holmes kind of fashion. John was surprised to see him there. Different from of his father, he had never dragged any partner's family to these things. He was grateful, however, to have both the unshakable brothers with him for backup in this. He hoped they knew that he would be very much alright with his stepmother being granted a few of those elegant Holmes insults.

John went to the bathroom, mostly for something to do instead of sitting and awaiting the inqusition, leaving the two elegant brothers sitting for themselves in the corner, looking very much to John's trained eyes like they were lying up a battle strategy. Which was just another reason to leave them alone, really. Let geniuses do what geniuses do best.

As he returned he ran into his father, stepmother, (already drunk) sister Harry, her smarmy new girlfriend as well as his stepmother's sister, complete with her two grown children. It seemed they had arrived together. He put on a smile and greeted them warmly, though perhaps not very sincerely. Not that it mattered: they were not Holmeses and would not notice, nor, indeed, care if they did notice.

"John." His stepmother gave him a once-over as a waiter lead them towards the back. "You really ought to take better care of yourself. You look gastly". John bit back a sharp retort, when a cultivated voice cut in. "Oh but there's more to life than well-manicured nails. I think you will find John take excellent care of himself. After all, he is a doctor". Mycroft looked back at them from where he was sitting, not bothering to rise for the present ladies, which was a good indicator of what he thought of them.

"Quite right" another voice seconed and John's mother appeared behind them, smiling warmly. Both the Holmes brothers rose as one, making the other women feel somewhat uncomfortable without even being able to pinpoint why. John hugged his mother, lingering for just a second, then cleared his throat and said "mother... father. This is Sherlock Holmes" he gestured to him "and his elder brother Mycroft. Sherlock and I work together with our own business and Mycroft..." he made sure not to look at either of the brothers for fear of cracking up "occupies a minor position in the british government. Sherlock and I got engaged this summer, but I am sure you remember that".

Geraldine Watson - she had never taken her maiden name back - reached out her hands and hugged Sherlock lightly. "Yes, Sherlock! John has told me so much about you!" Mycroft looked at her, adding in his cultivated, smooth politician's voice, but not unkindly in any way "Oh, yes, Mrs Watson! We have heard a lot of you, too. All good things, I assure you. My parents have charged me" he continued smoothly "with inviting you to their new year's eve celebrations, if you are staying in town". He did not extend the invitation to aybody else, and the silence was rather awkward on their part as they all sat down. John very, very much preferred them tongue-tied. Especially his stepmother's sister.

Harry's girlfriend chose, rather unwisely, to break the silence, only for both Holmes' brothers to look at her in tandem and ask her, on Mycroft's part, politely, in a conversational tone, about details of her criminal record, while Sherlock merely followed it up by asking if Harry knew about the boyfriend she currently had. After that, it was silent all the way through the entrees.

Finally, as they had started on the main course, John's stepmother started talking again "So, what is it that you two do, exactly?" "We are police and government consultants" Sherlock replied politely but coldly. "I get called in for difficult cases to bring forwards extra clues, and John works as my medical expert". "And is there decent money in that?" Mr Watson senior sounded sceptic. Sherlock looked back at him blankly "I have no idea. We do not do it for the money - we have no need to".

Naturally, it then went silent again, until Harry started to drunkenly giggle "look at you two" she sluddered out. "What does he even see in you? Face it, brother, you're just an easy..." "I would advice you not to finish that sentence" Mycroft Holmes cut in coldly. "John is family, and in _our_ family we do not take that lightly". John found that his mother was smiling. He decided that maybe, he would steer them towards safer grounds. He looked to Harry's new girlfriend.

"So, what do you do? I am sorry; I did not get your name earlier". She answered his smile with a slightly recentful look. "My name is Angelica Camper. I am a receptionist. I work with Harry". "You did" both Holmes brothers supplemented automatically. Mycroft continued almost absentmindedly "before she was fired" but it was Sherlock who finished "for her drinking". John could not help but smirk slightly internally, worried as he was for her, as their father for once turnd his sternness onto his sister, not on him, nevermind who deserved it. "Harriet! Is that true?" Mycroft chose that moment to look at John, Sherlock and Geraldine "what about we have desert independently. Back to my place, Mrs Watson? Brothers?" he said the last looking to John as well as Sherlock, including them both under the title, if just to make a point.

John sank into the the comfortable sofa of Mycroft's town house twentyfive minutes later, accepting a scotch from their host. "That is the most painless Christmas gathering since I was twelve". His mother laughed, sitting down next to him while the brothers spoke over by the drink table. "Are those two always like that?" He shook is head, finding himself smiling "Oh, no. They're usually far, far worse".


	4. Chapter 3

_So, this is set one day after the last chapter, exactly one year after chapter 16 in the first story, "A Portrait of a Genius". And no, I have no idea why I am so locked on Christmas in the middle of August! All recognizable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John awoke on Christmas day, in his and Sherlock's bedroom at Baker Street. It was with a sense of deep disappointment that that he realised that his brilliant fiance was not in bed with him. With a slight groan, the former army doctor turned in the bed and tried to go back asleep. However, before he could a slightly detached voice noted from the door "you do not seem very excited for Christmas this year, John". John sat up, putting on a smile "oh, I am. Just not for waking".

Sherlock approached with a small smile, setting down a tray of eggs and bacon onto the bed. After he had first started trying a couple of months ago, Sherlock had become quite an apt cook, as quick a study as ever. As he crawled back into bed, he noted with that soft, kind voice he only ever used when he was alone with John "will you tell me what upset you?"John grimaced "I am not, really. I just... I remembered last year. Knowing this was likely not enough for Sherlock, seeing as sentiment was involved, he added "I really enjoyed the gift last year".

Sherlock's eyes cleared immediately, and John knew him too well to be surprised at the relief he saw there. Same as he also knew him far too well to be bothered in the slightest by the seeming detachement that was so common in his detective, but not more true for it. Well, not as far as he was concerned, anyway. When it came to him, Sherlock always cared. "Well" the genius replied "you got hungry last year, and you were sleeping, so I thought I would feed you before gift-giving this year. You're still getting that - maybe this is the making of a... Christmas-tradition? But your other presents are new" he added as an after-thought, handing him a box.

John blinked slightly, then he smiled brilliantly and took the present. "That sounds like a brilliant idea". "My parents called, by the way" Sherlock said suddenly, as he leaned against the headboard, in his normal, nonchalant fashion. "They want us to come over for more than one night near new year's eve this year. I said that I would ask you". John smiled as he unpacked another gorgeous jumper, this one a dark grey. "I would be happy to go out there. I like it. And I love this gift". He leaned over to kiss Sherlock.

The consulting genius kissed him back, encouraging the former army doctor to lace his fingers into his hair. John did so eagerly, but briefly, soon pulling away with a final peck on his lips, reaching under the bed for two awerage sized, christmas wrapped gifts. They took turns, just like last year, John opening up a set of golden cufflinks, a new phone and a pair of elegant leather gloves, while he had gotten Sherlock yet another book on bees (maybe that was becoming a christmas tradition, too) and a set of chess-pieces in glass, upon learning that the genius actually found enjoyment in playing with him. He was not exactly sure why, but the warm expression in his very own genius' eyes as they played together before the fireplace was good enough for him.

John smiled, ridding the bed of wrapping paper, as Sherlock cuddled up to his side, and he knew, a distinct feeling of happyness coursing through him, that for today, he was free to touch him like his partner had never had issues with touch, never had been forced to go through torture. For today, everything was perfect, and one day, this would be what they got to enjoy, always. But until then, John was more than happy with just getting to love, and to be loved. He was ecstatic.


	5. Chapter 4

Sherlock would not deny that he was slightly uncomfortable. Nor would he deny, though he would if it was anyone but John asking, that he was also hopelessly happy. His beloved doctor lay with his head on his shoulder, their hands tangled together, looking a picture as he ran his free hand over Sherlock's abdominal muscles.

It felt good. It was nice. It was also exhausting, keeping all his defenses down, trusting to this degree. Sherlock would not have it any other way, but he was grateful at the same time, grateful that it was only Christmas morning once a year. After all, that's what made it so special.

 _Just a supershort little idea that popped into my head. This is last chapter, only from Sherlock's point of view as a change. So it is still Christmas, written in August. I am obviously longing for autumn. Or whatever it is. All recognizable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_


	6. Chapter 5

_So, this is set yet a few days after the last three ficlets, the Christmas weekend two years after Sherlock returned. They are engaged here, but have not yet gotten married. Also, this is me trying to be as non-explicit as possible about torture (not that I could be all that specific as torture is not amongst my fields of expertise... luckily). But the plot Bunny bit me, and it hurt, so here it is anyway. And I personally love the idea that John is calling Mycroft fairly regularly asking him to explain to him what on earth Sherlock is thinking. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

John was angry. It was increasingly uncommon these days, as Sherlock had come back from the fall respecting him considerably more. There were no more gruesome experiments in the kitchen, and while the genius was still frequently being an ass, he never was to "his John". He messed up, of course, fairly often, and did or said things that was a bit not good, but they were all unintentional, and being far fewer, they never truly got to the bottom of John's patience.

Sherlock was using the time getting better from the torture he had gone through, as well. From the beginning John had really only been able to touch him in the most casual way, maybe a quick hug or a brush of fingers, a platonic hand on a shoulder, or, of course, the classic of threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair, that always worked. The man was just a giant cat, really.

It had started to get better, Sherlock's feet and neck having been fair game for a long time, until nowadays there were plenty of spots and limbs John could touch without distressing his fiance. He respected that Sherlock had to take his time with this, he really did, and he was normally not bothered by it, at all. After all, he was with the person he loved and most wanted to be with, and he considered himself lucky, he really did.

It had been three days since christmas morning, and he could still feel their frankly divine christmas tradition of cuddling for most of the day in his fingertips. They would leave for Sherlock's parents estate the following morning, and had just eaten dinner. Sherlock had been laid out on the couch, and John had come over to cuddle, a little wistful as he remembered clearly how it could feel from the other day.

He had decided to try something slightly new, as Sherlock was clearly in a good state for it, and had gently run a hand over his genius' chest, testing the reaction, pointingly looking for erogenous zones hoping to bring him pleasure. Sherlock had jolted away immediately, which frankly was alright. John knew full well that he couldn't control what made him uncomfortable. It was the reaction of pure distrust and closing up, pulling away as if John might genuinely hurt him that got to him. Sherlock should know by now, in fact John was sure that he did, how much he could trust him. He did not deserve the defensive reaction, nor the suspicious eyes turned on him. And John was angry.

John let himself be furious with Sherlock, glaring at him, for one full minute, then he left the room, bringing his phone, the signals already going through to Mycroft Holmes as he walked. "Doctor Watson" the politician's voice soon came through smoothly "how can I help you? You are aware, of course, that you are expected at the Holmes' estate tomorrow". John sighed. "Yeah, I am. Unless I kill your brother first". There was suddenly soft concern in the usually cold voice of the elder Holmes' brother. "Then, may I ask what the problem is, and how I may help? I am assuming you are not truly about to shoot my little brother". John winced "well, he seems to think so, anyway. I think I need... a translation. Again. Genius to English, please".

John summarized what had happened, and could practically hear the other man shake his head as he finished. "You don't need a translation from the brain of a genius, doctor, but from someone who knows torture. Sherlock was never tortured in a... sexual manner, luckily" the Iceman actually seemed to dread that thought "but during sensory overload torture... " he cleared his throat "it will be a problem zone. Sherlock doesn't mean to distrust you, you probably just triggered a very, very bad memory. Do give him time, and don't be angry with him". "Oh". John could feel himself blushing. He had not thought of that at all. And with his history, he really should have.

After a short greeting consisting of a promise that John would indeed come to the estate, and bring Sherlock, in the morning, they hung up, leaving John to gather himself, and then to go back out to face Sherlock. The consulting detective had not moved, but he looked very upset. Had he been in the least bit normal, he would have been crying buckets.

When he saw John, Sherlock sat up straighter, promptly apologizing and almost begging for John to come back to the couch. John merely told him that it was fine, kissed his head and cuddled up to him for an evening of bad telly and good company.

It was about two hours later when John realised that something was most definitely wrong. He had, by mistake, of course, brushed against Sherlock's shoulder, something that happened occasionally, but always lead to Sherlock shuddering a little and shifting, even if they were now long past big reactions to small mistakes. He expected Sherlock to shift a little and apologized softly, when he realised that while Sherlock _did_ wince at the touch, he was leaning _towards_ it. That wasn't right.

John looked over at his partner in crime-fighting of so many years, his _partner_ of two, and fiance of six months "did you like that, Sherlock?" Sherlock wasn't looking at him, and his voice was oddly flat "it was fine". John frowned, then he realised what was up. "I wasn't angry before because you didn't let me touch you, Sherlock" he made sure to explain, reaching out to stroke the neck of his detective. "I got upset because you looked at me like that... like you thought I was going to hurt you. I know you cannot decide yourself what you like or not. Nobody can. Just relax".

"Oh..." Sherlock once again had that vulnerable expression that only ever came into play when their relationshiop was discussed. "I don't want to disappoint you... you already wish it was christmas morning again". "John smiled slightly, rubbing the detective's neck. "Yes, I suppose. I would want that everyday, but then it wouldn't be as special... I am fine, really I am. Never be afraid to tell me what you are feeling or liking, Sherlock, it is your choice. And it is fine. Really, it is".

Sherlock did relax, after that, it was almost immediate. Five minutes later, the former military doctor had his lap full of sleepy (or perhaps merely deducing) consulting detective. John gently stroked him over the cheek and head, watching an old movie as he wondered if he had managed to get everything packed earlier in the day, or if he had forgotten anything.

"John?" he looked down to see Sherlock studying him intently. He was so used to it that he had not even noticed. "Yes, love?" "You're rubbing my back" before John had time pull away, or even apologize, Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes "it is nice". John promptly decided that he really was an idiot, for thinking that Sherlock Holmes would no longer surprise him.


	7. Chapter 6

_This one is set the same Christmas as the recent stories, and tell us about John and Sherlock's stay with Sherlock's parents during the new year's weekend._

 _There is a bonus fic for reviewers set during the previous new year's eve party, as well. You get it by, you guessed it, reviewing. (Which is always fun, so please do that anyway!) Special thanks to my kind-of-beta, Wiznerd the Eagle, for being a complete proofreading badass. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners, as always, because really, who on earth would it_ else _belong to?!_

 _TapTap_

John was packing up, mostly for something to do. It was snowing outside, and Sherlock had gone to speak with the estate beehives, whatever that meant. He felt a bit less out of place here this year, he supposed. Not only was it more familiar, but he was actually Sherlock's fiance this time around. Somehow, if only in this setting, that made a difference. Perhaps it was the oldfashion setting of an actual country estate and all such things that did that, he supposed vaguely.

They were staying in the same cozy room with a big fireplace as they had occupied last year, and it felt homely. It was really a lovely place to stay, John reflected, looking up and out the window. They were staying four nights this year, but he was fine with that. He hoped that Sherlock would enjoy some time in his childhood home. Or with his childhood beehives, whichever he preferred. John found himself laughing at the thought.

The new year's party was a few days away yet, but Violet had made sure to let him know that they were having some people over for dinner that very evening. Knowing the Holmeses, he fully expected at least twenty people.

John switched to a clean jumper and walked downstairs after putting out Sherlock's things, the ones he would need upon returning from his little bee excursion, onto the bed. The hallway, as he arrived downstairs, was bright and elegant, and there were people already arriving for Violet's dinner.

He could recognize Cordelia McHamish, but there were far more people in the house this time. John walked into the room with a slight smile, greeting Cordelia as she was frankly the only person there that he recognised. "John!" she smiled to him in turn, reaching to grasp his hands. "How are you and Sherlock doing, dear?" "We are fine, yes. We got engaged this summer, m'am" John smiled to her. "Oh that is wonderful!" she replied, beaming.

"And you are?" John looks up from her to discover a older woman with dyed hair and far too much makeup. "Doctor John Watson is formerly a captain of the Northumberland Fusilers" Cordelia replied wth a benevolent smile. "Quite impressive". The other woman looked rather distainful. "An army doctor? And pray, how do you know the Holmes?" "Why, brains as well as bravery!" Cordelia continued to cut in, but John didn't mind. She clearly knew what to say, and he didn't. "He is Violet's youngest's, Sherlock's..." here she stopped, as a man approached, smiling. She introduced him to John as her brother, colonel McHamish.

There were more scornful gazes at John as they went for the table, curiously none from anybody he remembered from the smaller company the elder Holmeses had kept over new year's eve, and a few surprised gazes when John got seated with the family, and then that same overly makeuped lady dropped her jaw as Mycroft appeared, greeting John with a unusually warm "John! So you ended up not shooting my brother last night, then? I am fairly sure he deserved it". "Mycroft!" John grasped Mycroft's hand warmly and smiled "thank you for the translation, as ever. He is out right now, talking to bees. I am assuming he will come back when he is done with that".

Sherlock appeared then, dressed in the shirt John had put out for him, and went straight up to his place, just as Violet told them to tuck into the first dish. John, true to his habit, and seated strategically right next to his fiance, put some food onto Sherlock's plate, just like he did to his own. When Sherlock inevitably frowned at this John, without thinking, fell back onto his captain's voice as he normally would and ordered "You have barely eaten since breakfast yesterday Sherlock, so now you WILL eat! that" John turned to Violent, in the ensuing half-silence, smiling excusingly "I am afraid that making your son put on that slight extra weight is not always an entirely consensual activity. I promise I am not such a tyrant the rest of the time". Sherlock chose that moment to pick at his plate and announce "I do not like mushrooms". "Yes you do" John decided, just as Mycroft raised an eyebrow and elequently said he hoped that John _was_ somewhat of a tyrant, as it would doubtlessly be good for his brother.

After the four course meal was over, Sherlock having skipped two courses entirely and fully ignored his mother's protests, in fact everybody's protests but John's, they all retreated into the parlour, Sherlock flopping down bonelessly onto a large ottoman, pulling John down towards him and sulking at not recieving his full attention. Somewhat amused, John sat down, pulling Sherlock's sock clad feet into his lap and rubbing them gently but strongly in the way the genius liked so much, effectively ending the sulk before it really begun.

Longtime friends of the Holmes family, well aware of the volatile temper of the younger son of the family, was astonished to watch. The humble looking doctor in his white sweater, seemingly effortlessly made the younger Holmes brother abandon his restless pacing and just sit by the fire, or lie, as it were. Violet Holmes watched the couple with a look much like a cat who got the cream, and all her friends, as well as most of her aquaintances in the room, noticed.

Mycroft stalked over, just as alike a panther as his brother could be, and sat next to John, making a point to keep up polite, but also very unstilted, conversation. They talked about nothing in particular as John rubbed Sherlock's feet, the genius seemingly half asleep. At any other occasion, John would have assumed him to be in his mind-palace, but he knew that his consulting madman liked them far too much to miss these touches, so he concluded that he was not.

Mycroft looked at his brother silently, as John for a moment spoke instead to their father, and sighed internally in pure relief. His beloved, however difficult, always beloved, little brother had been so at unrest, for so long, and he felt profound relief, even though he might never admit it (though he quite suspected that John had guessed, the doctor was really rather more intelligent than most gave him credit for, and he rather suspected that that was how the man liked it) that he had settled at last.

John, meanwhile, kept absentmindedly rubbing Sherlock's feet as he spoke to the two older Mr Holmes, finding it rather amusing to witness Mycroft in his element, attempting to be actually charming. He understood why he did well in politics, except his sharpness, he really did well at it, as well almost as he did sharp or intimidating.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was enjoying the gathering more than he had most such events for a very long time, or ever, for that matter. John was right he _did_ like mushrooms, and even sitting in the parlour and listening to inane chatter was entirely berable when John was rubbing his feet like that. It was, all in all, almost entirely pleasant. Even his brother was not being very annoying.

Violet and Siger Holmes watched their boys, and John, whom they at this point practically included in that count, and they smiled to each other happily, as they already pondered with whom to settle their eldest son. Perferably a lady, not becuse they truly cared about those things, but because Mycroft pretty much always had been the only chance they got when it came to grandchildren.

As the evening drew on, and everybody was being charming and social (except Sherlock, who showed increasing signs of being asleep), John found himself relaxing, as he got to know more people than the two brothers and a handfull he knew by sight. He felt increasingly pleased that they were staying longer this time, and made a mental note to ask Sherlock to show him the beehives, before they left.

At barely ten o'clock, however, when the others were just about to drink tea and champagne, Sherlock had clearly had enough and dragged John upstairs instead. John, however, goodnaturedly accepted this, bid the company goodnight, and they could hear him say amusedly to his very own genius "you do realise, Sherlock, that they all believe you are dragging me up here to do something sexual". "I am not" he responded flatly, his voice carrying as well as his fiance's from the stairs " _I_ know that, Sherlock, but your mother doesn't, and that is on the verge of a bit not good!"

Violet Holmes' laughter prevented the guests, and her husband, from hearing any more of the doctor's lessons to her son about social etiquette. "Well, John always was the polite one" Mycroft commented dryly.

"Sherlock has changed for the better under his influence, though" Cordelia noted kindly. "I dare say he is happier, and hopefully, so is his doctor". "Yes" Violet Holmes agreed with a smile "I think that they both are, and all the better for being with each other". She gave her husband a warm smile "which is exactly how it should be, is it not?

John thought about it too, lying up in the cozy attick room, watching the stars through the large windows, the light of the fire discreet enough not to distort them, Sherlock curled up around him like a gigantic human octupus, and the former army doctor smiled. Life was somewhat odd, here with the Holmes, but he would truly not have it any other way.


	8. Chapter 7

_All I know about bee-keeping I learnt from Eddie Izzard and DEATH. Somewhat ironically (given that he's not alive and all that...), I am sure DEATH gives good advise, while I am fairly confident Izzard's tirade on the subject is rubbish. Also meant to be rubbish!_

 _This is the last chapter of "A Johnlock Christmas", but the third installment in the series, "Loving a Genius" is up and completed, and there's a fourth part, too, "My Sherlock", if you're liking this story. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners; this is all written just for fun._

 _TapTap_

John looked at them with a small degree of sceptisism. "Shouldn't we wear... I dunno, beekeeper's gear?" Sherlock, not bothered by safety aspects, as ever, was already skipping around amongst the beehives. The gardener smiled "we are not doing anything with them, and they are mostly asleep this time of year, anyway, even the most hardy types of bees".

He pointed to quite a few hives John had taken for empty "many are completely asleep, so to speak, this time of year. They won't swarm around us, so there's no need for it. Unless you are allergic, then winter or gear or not, I do not recommend coming up close". John shook his head, watching Sherlock move between the awake-ish hives. "No, just used to being forced to hold Sherlock back in order to keep the man alive" he smirks "he is a danger to himself, more often than not". The gardener laughed "I quite understand. Trust me, he was just the same as a boy".

John winced a little bit "I have a hard time imagining Sherlock as a kid. What was he like? He must have been a nightmare to try and care for..." The groundskeeper smiled. "Quite so. Tired his nannies out very quickly, he did. Quite the menace in the kitchen, too, with that curiosity of his! He was always fairly easy on me though, as I knew things he wanted to know. I never had much trouble with getting him to sit still and listen. But he was a handful, he was, all things considered". "That" John stated "I have no trouble envisioning. At all".

John had indulged Sherlock and let himself be dragged around the gardens, no doubt wonderful in the summer and beautiful even now, which held the beehives, and Sherlock indulged him right back when they got indors, accepting cocoa to warm him up and curling up around John before the fire. Violet watched from the door to the kitchen how her eldest son read peacefully in an armchair, looking prim as always, but clearly content, his umbrella abandoned out in the hallway and glass of whiskey and a plate of her home made christmas cookies next to his chair, and her youngest cuddled up with his fiance before the fire, and she beamed with all her heart as her husband joined her.

Siger smiled as he hugged his wife from behind and watched the scene. Mycroft was the only man he knew who could sit so upright and still look comfortable. Sherlock on the other hand wasn't even sitting, and it ought to have looked uncomfortable, too, but somehow didn't. He had pillowed his head on John's chest and was listening to the Christmas songs with unusual tolerance. Siger smiled. Finally, after all this time - perfection.


End file.
